


The Law of Conservation of Energy

by TheBookshelfDweller



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU HoB, I swear this was supposed to be short, M/M, Magical Realism, and anotherwllkeptsecret, and smokewhatyasigh, for not-john-watson, love potion fic, over on Tumblr, smutty-ish, written for a Tumblr propmt/gifset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no such thing as love potions. Sherlock should know - he's been practicing magic since the age of 7, he is quite versed in the rules of it. So when Henry Knight shows up in Baker Street one day, claiming to have been poisoned with a love potion, Sherlock dismisses him immediately. But the mention of Baskerville changes the stakes of the game, and leads Sherlock and John to Devon, where Sherlock learns to understand magic better, thanks the universe on his nicotine withdrawal, conducts an experiment, and solves a puzzle. And John? John, as ever, manages to surprise Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light, heat, pressure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/gifts), [between_spaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/between_spaces/gifts).



> A gift for the lovely people on Tumblr who expressed a wish for a love potion fic :) I couldn't find all of your AO3 aliases so I just tagged you up there.
> 
> I will try to upload the next two parts within the next couple of days! (honestly, the fic got away from me a bit and turns out it will be a bit longer than a one-shot)
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

****

_Glasgow_

The clanking of cutlery against fine china rang through the air. Minimalist lamps and elegant chandeliers spilt warm light over the space. Waiters swarmed about like a flock of blue jays, smart in their uniforms, with platters balanced at the tips of their fingers. The air outside smelt of rain, early breath of autumn, wet paving stones, and the unique smell that old cities had at night. There was nothing out of order about that particular night, or that particular restaurant, apart from the fact that in the men’s restroom, next to the mirror, Henry Knight was kissing a man he really never thought he would be kissing. Kissing him against the wall, and against his better judgement.

On the other side of the country, Sherlock Holmes had just given up smoking again, unaware that the abstinence crisis that would hit in a few days would lead him to make a completely inane decision. And then change his life.

 

* * *

 

_221B Baker Street, London, a few days later_

A shave. That was what Henry Knight needed, if you asked Sherlock. And possibly a tutorial on how to use cologne properly. The current, honestly appalling amount was making it hard for Sherlock to sniff at the residues of cigarette smoke that still clung to his client’s clothes. The itch under Sherlock’s skin intensified. He wanted nicotine, and the patches weren’t doing it.

Henry Knight kept on gazing around the flat, idle and slow. It was positively astounding that he could not hear Sherlock’s teeth gritting. John would have definitely noticed, were he in the flat. Which he wasn’t. John was taking a walk. John had been taking walks rather often lately. Determining the reason why was one of Sherlock’s primary mental exercises. So far, the circumstances that prompted such walks were always too different to constitute a logical pattern. Which was interesting. The only thing more intriguing than a pattern was a complete lack of one. John’s behaviour followed no pattern (the same could not be said about his jumpers, which all, sadly, followed the same one: tatty with a thread of ‘really-John-what-were-you-thinking’ running through them). John’s behaviour was erratic, Sherlock concluded for the umpteenth time, his leg bouncing rapidly, heal hitting a muffled staccato on the carpet. Only, Sherlock was sure it was not, sure that there was a common denominator to all the times John had inexplicably decided to go for a stroll. Sherlock stood up, vaguely aware of Henry Knight blathering on about how he found out about Sherlock’s services in the first place. The man stammered just slightly, fumbled over his words. Deeply rooted trauma, then. Or, possibly, an impactful event, rather recent. Probably one or the other. Typical.

Not like John. Irregular, confusing John. Mind-puzzle John. Sherlock turned his back to his client, and faced the mirror. There was something about John’s walks that he was missing. A link or a catalyst he had yet to identify. Sherlock felt like the answer was staring him right in the face. Just slightly out of reach. And Sherlock’s reach wasn’t easy to escape, so really, this was impressive. Unlike the blabbering man seated in John’s chair. Sherlock spun on his heal and rounded on his guest, interrupting him mid-sentence and forever depriving himself of the knowledge what precise technical issue prevented Henry Knight from finding out about Sherlock a full day and a half earlier. A true tragedy, that.

“Mr Knight, you said that this case of yours could not be properly presented any other way than in person. Seeing as you are here now, please, do try to convince me.”

The other man regained his composure impressively quickly, considering that he had suddenly become the seemingly sole focus of Sherlock’s attention, where the detective had appeared to be thoroughly ignoring him just the previous moment.

“Um, yes, well. As I just said, once I’ve managed to find your contact information, I knew you were the man I needed. You see, Mr Holmes, I needed you because I have been poisoned.”

This semi-dramatic confession was met by a single arching eyebrow. When Henry stayed silent, Sherlock prompted. Well, so to say.

“For a poisoning victim you appear to be doing rather well. No signs of organ failure, sepsis, or death. I prognosticate a full recovery. Was that all there was?”

“Mr Holmes!”

Finally the man was showing some spirit. Sherlock sat back down, and motioned for Henry to continue. The other man swallowed and then spoke.

“I am not dead or dying because I the poison I have been given was not a...typical one.” Another pause. Sherlock was wondering if he had time to produce some cyanide from apple seeds and put himself out of misery of this interview. At least Henry took out a cigarette and lit it after getting a nod from Sherlock, so Sherlock could finally indulge in a bit of passive smoking. He sincerely hoped the poison would turn out to be something exotic and useful in future experiments.

“What I have been given, Mr Holmes”, finally Henry resumed,”...is a love potion.”

Well then. Not really exotic or useful. But most of all, very, very _inexistent_. Sherlock’s sigh could have knocked down brick houses.

“Mr Knight, if you came here to waste my time, then I –”

“I have not. I swear I have not. You have to believe me, Mr Holmes.” There was a firm urgency to Henry’s voice that convinced Sherlock the man was either serious or seriously out of his mind. Possibly both. _Probably_ both. Still, Sherlock had nothing better to do at the moment. And listening to Henry would mean more smoking. Honestly, the smoking was a rather appealing idea. Sherlock knew how to make good of a bad situation, so he decided that Henry could stay as long as he kept smoking, and Sherlock would listen. Or at least pretend to.

“Alright, so what are you saying about this ‘love potion’?”

Henry drew a puff of smoke before replying.

“I live in Dartmoor, bit outside the town, so I have all my groceries delivered. I order them online.”

Sherlock couldn’t contain himself. Really, he was doing spectacularly well, even without John there to shoot him warning looks. But then again, he was only human (not that he would ever admit it).

“Did the delivery man bring you a love potion instead of milk, then?”

Henry didn’t seem deterred by Sherlock’s mockery. Sherlock presumed that when one went around claiming to have been given a love potion, one had to develop some sort of immunity against mockery.

“No, he did not”, answered Henry. “But he did bring a different brand of sugar than I usually took, not the one I ordered, you see. I didn’t think anything of it then. I was going on a trip the next day, so I didn’t have time to make a fuss about it.”

The story started to take shape in Sherlock’s mind, almost against his will.

“Naturally, you drank your afternoon tea – two sugars, no milk – and then again in the morning, coffee, before catching your train.”

If Henry was a bit dazed by Sherlock’s interruption, he recovered quickly and picked up the story where Sherlock had left it.

“Yes. I went to Glasgow, for a business trip and to visit an old...friend of mine. Nothing felt off until I got there. I was supposed to stay with him, you see. A two day stay. I arrived on Tuesday, planning to sleep over, head out for the business fair on Wednesday, and catch a train back home later on.” Henry’s cigarette kept burning itself to a stub while he spoke. “But that first night...I don’t know how to describe it, Mr Holmes.”

“Why don’t you try anyway?” Sherlock’s leg was bouncing again. Henry stubbed out the cigarette and reached instantly for a new one. His hands were shaking.

“Yes, right...We met up at a restaurant. I haven’t seen Christopher for months. We’ve had a bit of a falling out, so we haven’t kept in touch much, but he agreed to take me in while I was in Glasgow. I expected awkwardness, yes, but from the moment I shook his hand something changed. I know it sounds odd, but I swear that’s what it was like. I felt as if I could feel the vibrations of his body every time he moved.” Henry’s voice became distant, thoughtful. “And I am not being metaphorical, either. I could literally feel him. All the time. It was driving my insane. It was like an itch to touch or...something.”

 Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Mr Holmes.” The urgency has all but disappeared from Henry’s voice, leaving only absolute conviction. “It was one of the most intense experiences of my life.”

“Have you got any of the sugar with you now?”

“Yes. And I’ll leave it with you, Mr Holmes, but a friend of mine who works in a research lab couldn’t find anything unusual with it, so...” Henry let the words peter out, assessing correctly that finishing the sentence would not win him any points with Sherlock.

“And you are sure no romantic inclination existed in you prior to this meeting?”

“If you are asking if I never had feelings for Christopher, then I can’t say that I haven’t. But I had very good reasons not to act on any sort of feelings. In fact, acting on them was the most reckless thing I could have thought of. I assure you, Mr Holmes, what I have done, I have not done voluntarily.”

Sherlock levelled him with a stare. “And you believe you were... _under influence_? Of a love potion? Why not a drug? Maybe your drink was spiked.”

“It couldn’t have been. I had had nothing to eat or drink on the road, only at home. And the strange feeling started before I even had a glass of water in the restaurant. Besides, as I said, I had my food and water tested. There was _nothing_ that could explain this.”

The two men sat in silence for a few moments, Henry’s gaze locked on the window, while Sherlock observed his client, before Henry spoke up again, his voice soft in the dusty air of the flat.

“Can you imagine it?” he asked, looking back to Sherlock. “The possibilities of it?”

Sherlock feigned nonchalance, and shrugged.

“It would not work. Not in the long run, anyway, not without a constant renewal of the dosage.”

“What makes you say that, Mr Holmes?”

“I assume that the ‘potion’ is really just a clever cocktail of substances that are usually the basis of such feelings as closeness, attraction, and bonding. Oxytocine, serotonin, possibly some pheromones. Love is nothing but a simple disturbance of brain chemistry. It’s perfectly replicable through chemical manipulation. Although I must admit, it is interesting that you found a way to administer it in form of powder instead of injections.”

Henry cocked his head to the side, looking vaguely disappointed.

“A man with such a mind, and you cannot, even for a minute, consider that there might just be such thing as a love potion, can you, Mr Holmes?”

“I can consider it. I have. And I have dismissed such a ridiculous notion.”

Sherlock counted on the fact that Henry would assume he was dismissing the existence of magic, altogether. It was the logical thing to do. But that didn’t necessarily make it true. A childhood spent around Mycroft taught Sherlock that half-truths were the safest truths and the cleverest lies. They catered to the conflicting nature of people to be both suspicious and mentally inert and satisfied their superficial doubt while allowing them to rest comfortably in the belief that no more prodding was necessary. People liked to think themselves insightful, and the brain was trained to fill in the missing information. So Sherlock offered chosen nuggets of the truth, leaving out other ones, and let the lesser brains do their thing. Hopefully, Henry Knight would not deviate from the general populum.

Because the full truth was that there was no such thing as a love potion, but that did not mean there was no such thing as magic. Only, magic was not what most people imagined. There were no such things as wands or flying broomsticks. Magic was simply energy manipulated in a different manner. Like shattering white light into a rainbow using a prism, magic was the energy of things refined, transformed, redirected. Some of the old customs, such as burning herbs or chanting incantations were simple physics, really, using heat and sound to mold certain forms of energy. Not many people knew about magic, and even less were left in the world with the capacity to practice it. Theoretically, anyone could do it. Practically, it took a lot of will power, endurance and sheer wits to dabble into such things. That, of course, meant that Sherlock had been practicing magic since the age of 7, much at his parents chagrin. Mycroft, damn him, had been at it as early as age 5.

The rules of magic were numerous and varied in complexity, depending on the spell.  Commanding light was the easiest, followed by heat and then pressure, which was why most mages could set things on fire, make themselves invisible, or fly. Sherlock liked flying although he rarely ever got the chance to do it, and was a master of camouflage. Such energies conformed to a set of laws and rules that made them predictable and stable. Paradoxically, the more rules there were about manipulation the energy, the easier the spells. The more abstract energies of things such as thoughts were far more demanding, simply because they tended to deviate more from the rules of the norm. That too depended – controlling the will of lower classes of the animal kingdom was moderately easy, while birds and mammals posed a serious challenge. Humans were almost never even considered, apart from a few selected incidents throughout history.

But there were energies far too great and powerful to ever be contained. Contrary to common belief, life energy was not the greatest of them. Using magic to kill was frowned upon, and dangerous for the person doing the killing, but it was possible. It was a simple matter of opposites cancelling each other out, like water putting out fire. In order to kill a living being using magic, the sorcerer or witch had to conjure enough of the energy opposite of the one they wanted to extinguish, which was to say that in order to end a life, they had to be able to contain, for a short period of time, enough death in themselves to match the amount of life energy they aimed to destroy, before releasing it on their target. Killing insects, plant, and smaller animals was dangerous, uncomfortable, but not impossible. Killing people, on the other hand, was bordering on self-destruction most of the time.

But even life conformed to a loose set of rules, as did the human psyche. Human emotions, however presented an energy that never conformed, and which, if tempered with, became distorted, rotten, and dangerously volatile.  Attempting to manipulate it would lead to the destruction of the sorcerer or witch. Which was why there was no such thing as love potions.

Of course, Sherlock could not well tell Henry _that_. But he had to tell him something. So he told him the truth. Just not that particular truth.

“People don’t really fall in love with other people. Not at first at least. All infatuation is, at its core, narcissistic. People fall in love with mirrors, with the disfigured reflections of themselves, because they see themselves through the eyes of someone blind to their faults. They fall in love with the admiration, the worship, the possibility of deluding themselves with this upgraded image of themselves. In such a state irrationality intensifies and people are prone to all sorts of ridiculous behaviours. I dismiss the notion of a love potion simple because all such behaviour is simply and completely explained by the chemical defect found in people who claim to be in love. The chemistry of love is highly destructive, but there is nothing supernatural about it.”

“Perhaps. But will you still take my case?” Henry was unrelenting in a manner typical of people who grew more certain of being right the more times they were told they were wrong.

“What case? There is no case. I will analyse the sugar and prove to you that you probably contracted a fungal infection that affected your perception.” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“Alright. They didn’t find anything at Baskerville, but I hope you have better luck. If you change your mind, I am fully prepared to pay your trip to Dartmoor, to investigate.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his focus sharpening. “Did you say Baskerville?”

Henry looked slightly spooked, but nodded hesitantly. “Yes. The friend I told you about, the one who analysed my food and water for me, he works in Baskerville.”

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet, crowding Henry out of the chair and onto the landing outside the door.

“Mr Knight, expect me and my associate in Dartmoor by tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to pack.”

Henry looked properly bewildered. “What? Oh...yes, ok. Tomorrow, then. Should I e-mail you the address?”

“Yes, that would be perfect. Good day, Mr Knight.” And with that, Sherlock closed the door to the flat, leaving a thoroughly confused Henry to walk out the building and head towards the tube station nearby.

Back at the flat, Sherlock paced the length of the den before settling down in his chair, elbows on knees, palms pressed together under his chin. Baskerville. Mycroft tried his best to keep Sherlock as far from the research base as possible. Deep in the middle of the sleepy English countryside, experiments were being conducted with some of the most dangerous types of magic known to man. Sherlock had been waiting for an opportunity to snoop around for ages.

The tell-tale beat of footsteps echoed from the stairs. John was home. Excellent.

“You need to pack. We’re going to Devon.” Sherlock announce as soon as John walked through the door.

“Devon? Why?” John asked, looking at Sherlock in confusion, but with undeniable amusement. No, no...not amusement...something else... Sherlock ignored the itch under his skin that strangely returned, deciding it was simply there because all the smoke from Henry’s cigarettes had long dispersed. He swooped past John towards his room, turning on his heel to cast John a grin.

“For a case, John!”


	2. Gravity, sound, movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I decided to do smaller chapters in order to be able to post them more frequently and not keep you waiting too long, so the chapter count has been raised (and might continue to grow, depending on how much the story gets away from me).
> 
> Anyway, here's Chapter 2 :) Enjoy!

* * *

Fog hung over the moors like raw cotton in the chilly autumn pre-dawn of the scenic countryside of southern England. The sun was yet to rise and burn away the mist and night’s share of frost off the grass-and-heather mounds between which rocks shot up like strange forms of vegetation. The rumble of a car engine broke the quiet as a black jeep sped down the narrow country roads, spooking a couple of quails and sending them off in flight from where they were hiding the low shrubbery at the edges of a patch of woodland.

Sherlock drove the way he moved – fast, with sharp turns and unshakeable confidence. Out here, in one of the rare true wild places left in that part of the country, the raw, unrefined energy of natural elements still vibrated in the air, with no concrete, glass, or steel to drown it out. Even through the man-made barrier of the car’s hull, Sherlock could feel the different fields of energy morphing the landscape, slithering around each other like liquids of different densities. The reason why colours always seemed brighter in the wilderness was not simply a person’s ‘holiday perception’. The colours actually _were_ stronger, more vibrant, their wavelengths vibrating at higher energy levels than those in cities, who’s energies were weakened and diluted by human interference that brought along new energies of its own.

Here, the gravity of rocks was stronger, the Earth’s magnetic pull that tugged at the iron ore in the ground was more pronounced, and the cell respiration providing trees with the energy needed for sucking the water and nourishment out of the ground resonated in form of a high-pitched whistle through the air. Even the sound-waves were harder to bend, with the chirping of birds and muffled sounds of small animals of pray in their morning hunt seeping into the car.

This was the wild sort of magic, primordial and proud. Sherlock’s every sense sharpened, becoming more finely tuned. The itch under his skin began to feel like a swarm of angry bees. He could smell the lingering scent of petrol that still hung in the air from when they’d stopped to top up the tank, the smell of car plastic, and John’s deodorant. That last one only seemed to taunt the bees under his skin. The swaying of the car carried on into Sherlock’s muscles, making him vaguely motion-sick.

Being in such places of ancient, original power has always had a dual effect on Sherlock. On one hand, it acted as a tuning wheel, bringing his senses to the maximum, the high-level energies around him calling to his own molecules to vibrate faster. Sherlock’s love of London came at a price – his drug use had been a way to make up for the lack of this naturally-occurring high that was inhibited in the city. The magic here superseded any synthetic concoction man could ever invent.

But on the other hand, the brighter Sherlock burnt, the greater the demands of his body became. He could already predict the higher food intake that the next few days would demand, especially since he had no intent of giving in to the transport’s sleep cravings. Controlling these demands was always much easier to do back in the city, where the ancient energies came from its human-made history, rather than the ages-older elementary forces. The fields around Sherlock were simply so _alive_.

Sherlock had always been a creature of extremes, drawn to the idiosyncrasies in his surroundings. No wonder then that he had chosen to be a detective. Death, more than anything else, if violent and unnatural, lead to imbalances, pot holes in the fabric of energy. Death left tears in the planes that ran through the world, and for short periods in its wake those spaces remained void, before the ragged edges stitched themselves back together. But in those few moments, the existence and its lack, life and death, came the closest to being directly in touch. The ultimate extreme.

Next to Sherlock, John squirmed in his sleep, shifting so that his lax face was turned towards Sherlock. The left side of his face was flushed pink from where he’d pressed it into the seat. Sherlock cast a sideways glace, catching the way John’s eyes twitched rapidly beneath his eyelids, his lips slightly parted. Sherlock’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Just like the world around them, people emitted energy like lighthouses – body heat, bioluminescence, the hushed murmurs of their organisms maintaining homeostasis. Magic was a loud world, a bright world, a world that demanded attention. But out of everything in this world, blocking out people could be both the easiest and the most difficult task. Ignoring them in masses was easy, each individual’s energy getting lost in the entropy, too weak to be distinctive. But every now and then, a person would appear that became the brightest spot in one’s field of vision, whose energy collided with another’s and left shrapnel there, shards that remained forever embedded.

Sherlock had learned early on how to tune out people, and focus on the details crucial for deduction. The best sorcerers were not the ones whose personal energy was the strongest, but those who best understood the energies around them, knew how to untangle the various strands in the tapestry of the world and pull the ones they needed. Once this was mastered, ignoring people’s energies became elementary. And Sherlock mastered whatever he set his mind on.

But then came John Watson with his jumble of energy, an angry quasar of loud, scorching light, and darkness at the centre eating away the light, and Sherlock found his master useless all of a sudden. He could not ignore John. More alarmingly, he found that he _didn’t want to._ The darkness in John was too familiar, a chip off the same block as the one lodged in Sherlock, darkness that demanded the rush of blood that came with danger.

John came and put bees under Sherlock’s skin, like he had every right to, and he didn’t even know. So, if Sherlock broke his own rules every now and then – if he made sure that the air held John up as he jumped across gaps between rooftops, if he sometimes bent the light so that a shooter could not see John clearly, if he had blocked the electrical impulse that ran down John’s nerves and tricked John’s mind into thinking his leg was aching that first time they ran together – than it was justified. Sherlock hadn’t been given a choice, he never asked for John, but now John was here, his energy more interspersed through Sherlock’s with each passing day, and preserving John became paramount due to the simple reason that magic always strived toward self-preservation. John didn’t know – _couldn’t know –_ the extent to which Sherlock was aware of him, all the time.

The sun rose as they passed through a village of low, stone houses. Henry Knight’s home was on the outskirts of the hamlet, an old-fashioned affair with modern touches, entirely too big for just one person. Sherlock took a sharp turn, unintentionally jolting John awake.

“Are we there yet?”

“Just about.”

“We should’ve gone to the inn first. It’s barely dawn, I doubt Henry’s up.”

“He’s a highly anxious man convinced of having been poisoned. Look at his house, John – reflector lights near the front door, high garden wall. He’s a recluse, suspicious to the point of paranoia. Not the type to have lie-ins. More likely that he’s been awake for at least an hour already.”

Pulling up to the house, Sherlock snatched the keys out of the ignition, jumping out of the car and leaving John to follow after him. They walked up the garden path, through a derelict glass patio. Sherlock knocked and stepped back alongside John, waiting. From within the house, sounds of approaching footsteps echoed down what Sherlock predicted would prove to be large, empty corridors. Henry Knight opened the door, looking tired and bleak.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. Hello” he greeted, rubbing a hand up and down his face, which was sporting dark circles around the eyes. “Please, come in. I see you had no trouble finding the right place.”

“Obviously”, replied Sherlock, stepping into the light-coloured, spacious foyer. John trailed behind, peeking into the adjoining rooms as Henry lead them down the hall and into the massive kitchen that overlooked the back garden.

„Would you like some coffee? Tea?“ Henry asked.

„Coffee, please. John?”

“Yeah, coffee’s fine, ta. No toxic sugar, though.”

Sherlock smirked, letting his eyes wander off John and over the kitchen. The chemical analysis of the sugar sample that Henry had left at Baker Street yielded nothing, but Sherlock wasn’t discouraged. The sample had been too small for him to test in more than a few basic ways, but Henry had assured him he’d kept the original package for Sherlock to experiment on.

As far as John was concerned, their trip to Dartmoor was a simple case of poisoning-gone-wrong that warranted Sherlock’s attention because of the creative way the poison was stored and delivered. Sure that Henry would go on to babble his love-potion story again the moment John started asking questions, Sherlock spun a story about how the poison caused delusions.

“Mr Knight, I was wondering if you’d be able to call in another favour with your contact at the Baskerville laboratory.”

Henry flinched as if he’d forgotten Sherlock was there, then his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Um...yes, I should be...but I thought you were here to investigate... ”

“... who tried to poison you and why. Yes, and I will be all over that promptly, but my investigation process requires access to a laboratory, does it not, John?” Sherlock’s words came out like river rapids.

John was seated at the kitchen island, sipping his coffee. Sherlock could see him fighting a grin as he responded to Sherlock all-too-innocent question, playing along with whatever Sherlock was trying to do but not believing it for a second. Clever John.

“It does, indeed.”

Sherlock let the side of his mouth quirk up in a way he knew only John would recognize.

“Precisely. Besides, no harm working on several fronts at once, now is there?”

Henry blinked, looking slightly dazed.

“Ah...no, I guess there’s not.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock smiled, but there was too much teeth for it to be real. “That’s sorted then. Text us when you’ve arranged it. Come along, John! There’s a delivery man we need to trace down.”

He swept out of the kitchen with his coat flapping around his knees. John cast an apologetic look to Henry.

“Sorry, he’s just...I better go after him. Thanks for the coffee.”

Chasing after Sherlock, John caught up with him at the garden gate.

“Ok, what are you up to?”

“Whatever could you mean, John?” Sherlock replied, not even trying to hide the twinkle in his eye.

“You’re up to something. What is it?”

“Have you ever heard of Baskerville?”

“Think so, yes, back in the army. Military base. Very hush-hush. ”

“Military, yes, but the laboratories in Baskerville are some of the best-equipped and most ethically dubious in the country. The research they’re doing requires the highest security clearance in the country. One of the most interesting –”

“You’re going to break into Baskerville, aren’t you?” John interrupted, smirking.

“Of course I am.” Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. John’s smile had a gravity of its own. John fit in this wild place, unfiltered, vivid. The light seemed to bend differently around him here, making him always present in Sherlock’s field of vision, his step curiously lighter.

“And what, exactly, has this got to do with Henry’s case?”

“A secret military laboratory? A delusion-inducing poison? Don’t you see John – it’s got everything to do with it.” ‘ _Everything, and then some’_ Sherlock didn’t say. The fact that Baskerville was built in a place of old energies would mean nothing to John without him also finding out that when Sherlock said _military_ , what he didn’t really mean the gun-firing, uniforms-wearing sort. Baskerville was the Stonehenge of the 21st century, only much less accessible.

“So, what’s the plan? How are we going to break into a top secret military base?” John asked as they came around to the car. Maybe it was the strange light, but Sherlock was sure the shine in John’s eyes was no trickery. He looked at Sherlock the way Sherlock looked at particularly ingenious spells – with pride, awe, amusement, disbelief... John’s look was like an analogous sound wave, clear and even and vibrating in the very air around Sherlock. Sherlock squirmed. Light to sound to movement.

“I have acquired a tested, fool-proof means of gaining access with no possibility of failure.”

John’s smirk turned into a grin, increasing its gravity, and for a moment, Sherlock couldn’t breath. Movement to gravity to pressure.

“You stole Mycroft’s security pass, didn’t you.” And there, in John’s eyes. Movement to gravity to pressure to _heat_.

 “Didn’t I just say that?” Sherlock replied through the thin air in his lungs.

John’s laughter rang in the quiet morning, and the bees under Sherlock’s skin buzzed and buzzed.


	3. Magnetism, electricity, potential

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, this was originally planned as a longer chapter, but since I've been swamped with work and didn't have time to work on it properly, I'm posting a shorter one. I'm really sorry for the ridiculously long wait. Enjoy! (and thanks to NQB2 for sparking an idea with their comment ;) it's not quite what you think, but I hope it will prove fun all the same in later chapters)

* * *

“You honestly think this will work?” John asked. They were in their rented room at The Cross Keys Pub, John changing out of his travel clothes and Sherlock stretched out on the bed, with hands under his chin, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The room was small and cosy, the two single beds pushed close, separated only by a dark, wooden nightstand.

“Of course it will work.” Sherlock replied, frowning. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you look nothing like your brother and I have a feeling the security at a top secret military base is at least rigorous enough to check the ID photo.”

Well. Sherlock couldn’t very well tell John that _yes, they did check the ID photo,_ but that photographs – and vision as such, for that matter – were nothing more than a collection of light waves breaking under certain angles, and thus very pliable if one knew how to handle them. So he just said:

“It will work.”

John snorted.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Okay. I supposed you’ll want to check it out right away.”

“Of course.”

John nodded shortly. “Alright, then. I’m off to take a shower before we go.”

The bathroom door clicked as it closed, leaving the room mostly cut off from the muffled sounds of John shedding his clothes and turning on the shower. But still, even without sight and with only small sounds, Sherlock was keenly aware of John’s movements. John was bright heat among cold tile, and a million sounds among mute ceramics and metal. He was the bright spot in Sherlock’s vision that left an imprint on his retinas and painted itself bright orange against the black of Sherlock’s closed eyelids.

The shower stream hit the bottom of the tub with the patter of miniature rain. Sherlock could hear John’s feet shuffling on the smooth tile and tried very hard not to think about John at that very moment. Sometimes magic was a curse, like that wicked friend who could be kind but never passed on a chance to taunt you. Sherlock sometimes allowed himself to indulge in the idea that he’d mastered magic, but in the end he was aware that there was no such thing. And magic combined with Sherlock’s mind was as easy to ignore as gravity. Provided with enough data, Sherlock’s brain could conjure up vivid images full of details. Skin – wet. Hair – damp. Eyes – closed against the spray. Hands – restless. Body – naked. John – wet skin, naked skin, warm skin, tired face, closed-off face, important face, face and then the rest, the body, the hidden body, the out-of-reach-body.

The bees under Sherlock’s skin changed shaped and turned into words. Words of John’s blog, words never said, words in drafts and deleted texts, deleted events. Words that never were and never should be. Words that were true and words that were his only.

Sherlock spoke a lot. He had words and he wielded them lie daggers, like handcuffs, like rocks, like court subpoenas. He had many and he used them, but never carelessly. Because what every sorcerer learned as soon as he could speak that words had power. Words were the capsules in which powers of unfathomable thoughts were enclosed, the bodies birthed out for urges that moved like dark land masses under skin and between bones. Humanity had had the concept of True Names for ages, true remnants of times when magic roamed free and ruled all, a truth so long denied that it had been promoted into a myth long ago. Like Sherlock, the magical truths were hiding in the safest place possible – in plain sight.

It was not true that to name a thing was to strip it of its power. To name a thing was to give it your mind, the air from your lungs, your voice, and the muscles of your face. To say a word was to cast magic and let it rummage through you like a raging Northern wind. ‘ _Say it, you’ll feel better_ ’ was the greatest lie humans believed. Words were wreckers. Worse thing, though, was that the things they marked were bloody natural disasters of the soul. Those were the things that seeped into pores and tore apart seams of the world. Like water through karst, like fog through the air, like... _smoke._

Sherlock’s eyes flew open as he jumped off the bed and rushed to the small, rickety desk under the window. He grabbed a pen and some paper from the mismatched stationary set, scribbling down a note for John before dashing off. The slam of the door shook through the room, but Sherlock was already gone.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?” John came out of the shower, pink and clean, to an empty room and a note that had fluttered to the floor. He bent down to pick it up. It read ‘ _Baskerville, small car park, one hour. Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. P.s. Bring the sugar.’_

Well, then. Not the first time John was left in Sherlock’s wake and expected to come running at Sherlock’s beck and call. But that was the thing, wasn’t it – John came, every time.

He picked up his clothes and started dressing.

* * *

 

Sherlock walked through to moor behind Henry’s house, with Henry struggling to keep up. Baskerville was an ominous outline in the distance.

“You said you got all your groceries via delivery?” The black coat billowed behind Sherlock, cutting a rather Byronic figure. John would probably call it overly dramatic.

“Yes.” Henry answered, slightly exasperated. “I get them delivered twice a week for the perishables and once every two weeks for the rest.”

“How about your cigarettes?” Sherlock whirled around, causing Henry to almost bump into him.

“Yes, those too.” Henry’s brow was creased. “Is there something wrong with my cigarettes?”

“Possibly. No way to tell yet. Thank you, Mr Knight, this was most informative!” Sherlock was practically bouncing around the moor as he sped up, clearly dismissing Henry and heading towards Baskerville.

“What does that mean?!” he heard Henry call out after him, but Sherlock just waved his hand and continued walking. He was in a rather good mood. The fresh air and distance silenced the buzzing in him, or at least replaced it with the buzz of the case. Stupid of him to rely on Henry’s information from the start. Of course it wasn’t the sugar! _A different pack?_ If someone wanted to poison Henry, why would they have used _different_ packing? Surely that was too obvious a tell. Such a move was amateurish at best and plain illogical in the worst case scenario. Sherlock should have spotted it sooner, and he would have, were it not for the... _distractions_. He should have known that the poison was probably distributed in a more subtle way. Smoke made perfect sense. Some pheromones could have easily been dispersed through air. A little magic applied to the temperature tolerance would have made them resistant to the burning cigarette. Of course. It had to be this. And Sherlock knew just the place where such an experiment in chemical manipulation was a daily pastime. It also happened to be _very_ nearby.

Making pseudo-love potions in a military base might not have seemed logical to regular folk, but Sherlock could see pass the saccharine (if rather morally dubious) implications of such concoctions. There was no doubt in his mind that the Baskerville scientists had no intentions to use their products for happy matchmaking. Love – however induced – was a severe chemical imbalance, but what was more, it was a vicious motivator. Making a person believe that they loved someone was a sure way to gain their compliance if the object of their affection were used as bait or hostage. Magician scientists often made some of the most ingenious and insightful people. Combined with military ruthlessness, they made some of the most dangerous ones too. Born psychologists and natural experimenters, they all seemed to forget or ignore the ethics. As if ethical applications of science were not an issue enough, they had magic to deal with too – an almost (if not quite) limitless power given to only a group of people to be used – and given on the basis of no detectable criteria, too. And such power not only made a man believe he was in a higher class – it actually confirmed it. How could it not? If one could command the elements around him, how was he equal to those who could only be slaves to those same elements? Magicians were not wise men in pointy hats and purple robes. Magicians were egomaniacs with god complexes, smart, dangerous children of the Energies. And what insolent children, too. They never stopped trying to toy with the highest of Energies. The Baskerville lot were the absolute worst in that respect. Sherlock could see why they were chosen for the jobs they were doing – the job description must have read: magically talented and with no conscience, what so ever.

Sometimes, Sherlock wondered if it were the magic that made them this way – not just their perceptions of themselves as magicians, but the actual magic. Maybe the human mind (soul? spirit?) was not meant for all that knowledge, all that control over things greater than itself. Maybe it had been, once, when everything was more vivid. But now? With all the technology making the world a very different place? Sherlock didn’t know. He wouldn’t have traded his magic for anything, but he’d wondered if not having it would have made some things...different. He wasn’t interested in _‘easier’_ , but the options that were not available to him had always intrigued the Detective, simply for being so elusive. Most of the time, he guessed, he would have probably been bored out of his skull. He wondered if, if there were no magic in him, he would still feel John’s presence like an inner layer of his own skin, like sparks of electricity running through a conductor. If he would still enjoy the lovely interlacing of the sound waves of John’s voice as he did now. If John would still burn so bright in Sherlock’s vision, pull him so strongly in his orbit. And if the answer was ‘no’ then Sherlock knew that whatever price magic brought along, was a price worth paying. Maybe precisely _that_ was the price – that constant feeling of being just a bit too much, just a little too _present_. Too close to the edge, brimming with potential energy. Too alive. Because the things that lived so strongly, died more deeply.

Lost in his musings, Sherlock made his way to a small car park behind the towering figure of Baskerville Laboratories, where a black jeep was parked. John was leaning against the hub, his arms crossed, squinting at Sherlock in the bright sun. Sherlock wondered if one day John would become so bright Sherlock would have to squint at him, too.

“I see you got my message.”

John snorted out a laugh. “If by ‘got your message’ you mean ‘found a scrap of paper on the floor of our mysteriously empty room beckoning me to meet you in a restricted area with no good explanation to why I’m here, lest someone asked...then yes, I got your message.” John’s words were sharp, but his tone was teasing, so Sherlock just smirked and opened the door on the driver’s side and slid in.

“Tell me again – why are we taking the car to a place that is _literally_ a few steps away?” John asked, getting into the passenger spot and buckling the belt.

“Honestly, John, did you expect us to _walk up_ to the gates of a top secret military research base? How many top secret military officials with security rankings high enough to get into a place like this have you seen walking up to the gate?” Sherlock started the engine and steered the car onto the dusty path that weaved around the complex and onto the main road.

“True enough.” John conceded.

“We are going to drive to the main road, go approximately a kilometre in the opposite direction, then take a turn and circle back to the main entrance, where I will get us in using Mycroft’s ID.” There was no mistaking the smug note in Sherlock’s voice, nor that or grumpy amusement in John’s as he replied.

“So why was it that we couldn’t have just gone by car from the village?”

“Because I had to check something first, and meeting here was far more convenient.”

“ _For you,_ you mean.”

“Of course I mean for me, John, what else would I mean?” Sherlock could stop the corner of his mouth from rising and ruining his mock-seriousness. A beat of silence passed before both he and John erupted into a fit of (I assure you, very manly) giggles. The sun was beating hard against the jeep’s windshield, forming a one-way mirror so that no one could see the two men laughing inside, as they drove towards a place where even laughter could be put to a more profitable (and probably destructive) use than just mere enjoyment.


	4. And all the other things we've wasted...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the wait, life was just so hectic. I promise this story will be done soon.

* * *

The guard at the gate didn’t blink twice as Sherlock handed him the stolen ID. He lifted the ramp to let them pass just as Sherlock released the weaving threads of light that he’d bent in order to morph Mycroft’s picture, or more precisely, the way the guard saw it. The effort of casting the spell strong enough to break through the magical barriers imposed around Baskerville left him white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel. Seeing John’s curious look, Sherlock forced his body into obedience.

They left the car and started navigating the outer courtyard of the facility. It wasn’t too long before Sherlock spotted a young man in drab coming their way. He supposed he could manage at least a basic level covering spell. Invisibility was out of the question, with the security so firmly in place at the base. Sherlock could feel the strange sensation associated with places of high magic that was artificially accumulated and kept sedated in one place. It was a completely different feeling than going to sites of original magics. Rather than filling him with power, Baskerville drilled into Sherlock and sucked his magic into the mainline. It didn’t feel as much as being drained as being plugged into a bigger power circle, losing autonomy and control over one’s own power. It felt like belonging to a mass. Sherlock wondered if ordinary people felt this way every day. He didn’t appreciate the feeling.

His thought of a cover spell was quickly dismissed. The young soldier was already too close to not have seen them, and Sherlock poor, paralysed magic was not up to the task of anything simpler than lighting a candle at the moment.

“What is it? Are we in trouble?” The soldier came to a stop in front of Sherlock and John.” A simple armband of purple told Sherlock the man was magic-enabled as part of a defence team. Obviously, he had too low a rank to ever have actually met Mycroft in person. Which meant Sherlock could play this to his advantage. He straightened his spine, clasping his hands together at the small of his back.

“Are we in trouble, _sir_.”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

Apparently, Sherlock’s innate imperiousness was not enough to get them through to the main entrance, since the man, although chastised, didn’t budge from his spot. He decided on a different approach.

“You were expecting us?”

The soldier shuffled his feet.

“ Your ID showed up straight away, Mr Holmes.” Apparently using Sherlock’s (or Mycroft’s, to be precise) name, reminded the man to introduce himself. “Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?”

“Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.”

“It’s just we don’t get inspected here, you see, sir.” The young corporal sounded hesitant. “It just doesn’t happen.” He wasn't relenting and Sherlock was coming to the end of his patience when John stepped in.

“Ever heard of a spot check?” he asked, brusquely, whipping out his credentials – “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers”– which sent Corporal Lyons into a slightly-panicked salute.

“Sir. Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you both.”

John ran his eyes all over the younger solider, and then looked away, dismissive, and cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid we won’t have time for that. We’ll need the full tour right away. Carry on.”

Lyons opened is mouth to object, but then froze for a moment not even breathing. It lasted but a second, and when he snapped back he obviously saw that there was no other solution than to obey. John had that effect on people, Sherlock had noticed. It started a feeling at the pit of Sherlock’s stomach that almost pleasantly disconcerting.

“Yes, sir.” Lyons replied with eyes slightly glazed over.

And so they went into the belly of the beast.

 

* * *

The narrow white corridors echoed as the three men walked through the sterile maze. Doors around them opened and closed as people walked briskly in and out of rooms, too quickly for Sherlock to glance at anything hidden in the spaces behind the doors.

Corporal Lyons lead them along at a brisk pace, pointing out the areas he deemed appropriate to be seen by outsiders. Finally, the stepped into a wide, brightly lit room stuffed with cages of various sizes, from the small ones containing rabbits and rats, to large boxes covered with sheets, intended for larger animals, Sherlock supposed. On the other side of the marked linoleum floor, a door was marked as “out of commission”.

“This way to Major Barrymore's office.” Lyons ushered them across the lab.

They walked over and stepped into a small, book-filled office overlooking the way they came. Scanning the shelves, Sherlock could already make out the owners character – books on Thatcher and Churchill that spoke of family values and love of discipline, several war anthologies and history books with discernibly military characters indicated a soldier to the bone, and not a scientist. A set of leather-bound, unmarked tomes just confirmed what Sherlock assumed – Barrymore was one of the Magicals. Hardly anyone in Baskerville wasn't. Despite the lack of title or any other mark, the books on Barrymore's bookshelf were familiar to Sherlock. He'd seen them in many places, including his brothers office and his parents' home. The Unfinished Books, some people called them. Overly dramatic, really, if you asked Sherlock. All those book were was a ledger of all the names of Magicals born over the years. For most part, the pages were filled with intricate family trees.

One of the limitations of Magical folk was that their magic did not enable them to identify others like them. There were non-magical people with energies much brighter than those of some Magicals. There was simply no way of telling if someone was magical or not. Which was why there were ledgers. Like certain hereditary traits, magic tended to pass through generations of some families – thus the family trees – even though every now and then, children of non-magical parents strayed into the mix. Obviously, Barrymore felt the need to keep this information at hand. Speaking of the wolf...

“Sir.” Lyons saluted with a stiff spine as a tall, thin, balding man in a uniform entered the already crowded office, bringing with him an older man sporting a lab coat and a friendly smile.

“I was not aware we were taking visitors today, Corporal”, the Major bit out.

“An inspection, sir.”

“So I see. But that's the thing – we don't get inspections here. Who are you lot?” Barrymore turned to Sherlock and John with a disdainful look on his face.

“Now there, Major, no need to be rude” the elderly scientist said and then turned to offer his introductions to Sherlock and John. “Dr Bob Frankland, at your service.”

“This is bizarre!” Barrymore ignored Frankland's attempts at civility. “I demand to know what you are doing in my lab.”

“New policy. Can’t remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows _what_ you’d get up to.” Sherlock replied, matching Barrymore's arrogance with his own. God knew it posed not problem to him to do so. He just hoped neither Barrymore nor Lyons would be stupid enough to mention the word “magic” - the task of keeping John under the impression that his was merely a military science base was going splendidly well for now.

“I was not notified of this”, the Major replied, his voice full of mutiny.

“It's a surprise inspection, it wouldn't have done much good to notify you.” John said.

“Precisely”, Sherlock took over. “We will require unlimited access to your labs for a period of 24 hours.”

“24 hours?” Barrymore spluttered in outrage. “I will have to speak to my higher-ups before I grant such a ridiculous request.” he said, about to turn on his heel and leave. Only, just as he was about to do that, his breath caught, much like it did with Lyons earlier on, and the Major froze in place.

“You already have the permission of your higher-ups. Do you think we'd be standing here if you didn't?” John asked, not in the least bothered by the Major's odd behaviour. Barrymore shook his head, as if to clear it, and focused his befuddled gaze on John.

“Ah...yes.” He cleared his throat. “Very well then, yes. 24 hours.”

“Let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Frankland added.

If Sherlock thought Barrymore's sudden cooperation was odd, he was not about to question it too deeply, lest it be withdrawn. “Excellent”, he said, clapping his hands once. “We'll start with this floor.”

And so the lab was cleared promptly, if one didn't count the disgruntled murmurs of scientists being driven out of their natural habitat. Soon, Sherlock, John and the two soldiers were the only ones left in the sterile space. With a last warning glance, Barrymore walked towards the exit with Lyons at his heels. In the silence of the empty room, Sherlock turned to John.

“That went smoother than I expected.”

“I expected we'd be held at the main gate and thrown into a holding cell until your brother came to pick us up. So yes, you could say that.”

Sherlock just snorted and looked around, but before he could say anything John spoke up again.

“What do you suppose all the animals are for?”

“Whatever they're developing in here needs to be tested. I suppose the animals are the first stage of testing.”

“And the second?”

“Humans.”

“Volunteers for that must be swarming at the door.” John marked with sarcasm.

“John, you've seen this place. I do not think they wait for volunteers.”

“Yeah, that's not creepy at all. So, what next?” he asked, levelling Sherlock with a questioning look.

“We split up. You go check _that_ ”, Sherlock pointed at the _out-of-commission_ door. “And I'll see what they're keeping in the back rooms.”

“Why do I have to be the one to go in a potentially dangerous room?”

“Because I'm the one with a chemistry degree, so it makes more sense that I am the one checking out the chemicals in the back rooms.”

“I am a doctor, you know. I've passed chemistry. Several types of chemistry, in fact.”

“And yet, you manage to over-brew the tea. Sorry if my faith in your chemistry skills is lacking.”

“Arse.”

“Arse with a degree in chemistry. Now go, I'll meet you here when you're done.”

With one last long-suffering look, John heaved a sigh and marched away toward the door. As soon as he was inside, Sherlock bolted to the control room he'd seen on their way down. If his instincts were right (and they almost always were), the room was very much  _not_ out of commission.

 

 

* * *

The room was bare, save for the pipes lining the walls that ended in valves and something John assumed were shower heads. In all likeness, it was a decontamination shower room closed down for maintenance. The eerie quiet did nothing for John's nerves as his steps echoed in the abandoned space. He had an inkling Sherlock had a very good reason for sending him in there. And Sherlock’s ' _very good'_ reasons tended to be very bad, most of the time. But the undisturbed quiet seemed unsettling at best, but not threatening. John assumed it could have been worse. He walked the perimeter of the room, peering at the fixtures on the walls and searching for anything that could be counted as odd. But the room was disappointingly plain and unexciting and John decided he was probably sent here so Sherlock could go off doing god-knows-what and not be chastised for it by John. John resisted an eye-roll and started for the door. Which is when the siren started howling and the lights flashed.

Momentarily disorientated, John could do nothing else than stumble and cover his eyes as the wailing continued and bounced off the tiled walls, the bright lights suddenly illuminating the semi-darkness of the room in flashing waves. John reached out to find the nearest wall and follow it to the exit. He was almost there when the showers came on, spraying him with a fine mist of whatever was in the pipes. And whatever it was, John doubted it was clever to breathe much of it in, which is why he covered his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt as he pulled at the door. Only to find it locked. He tugged and tugged, but the door wouldn't budge. His head was pounding with the noise and the blinding lights. Then, just as quickly as it has started, the cacophony died down.

John's abused ears caught the faint sound of the door automatically unlock and he rushed to open them, stumbling back into the lab where he was met with Sherlock's pale face.

“Are you alright?” The Detective's face was unnecessarily close to John's for some reason as the taller man crowded the ex-soldier.

“Yes, yes, I'm fine, no need to mother-hen me. What the hell was that?”

Sherlock fidgeted.

“The door must have locked automatically as some sort of protocol started.”

“And where were you if I may ask?”

Sherlock bristled with insult, all ruffled feathers. “I was investigating, John.”

“Right.” John wiped his sweaty palms against the corduroy of his trousers. “And did you find anything?” Sherlock's fidgeting was annoying and more than a little suspicious.

“I'm not sure yet.” Sherlock muttered, as if the words themselves offended him. Without a word of warning, the Detective leapt into a fast walk and headed towards the lift, typing out a message on his phone. “Come along, John!”

And if John's head was still spinning a little from the commotion of it all, he had no choice than to risk bumping into a wall as he ran after Sherlock. As they walked out of the complex and back to their car, Sherlock seemed to keep an awfully small distance between himself and John, as if fearing John would come tumbling down any moment.

“I'm fine, Sherlock, no need to hover.” John snapped. The fleeting hurt in Sherlock's eyes made him regret it immediately, but the other man did take a step to the side, giving John some breathing space. All the was back to the village, John was aware of Sherlock's strange looks, cast when the Detective thought John wasn't looking. There was something expectant about Sherlock's behaviour. John just looked out the window.

 

* * *

When they arrived back at the inn, the sun already setting behind their backs, Henry was waiting for them. His pale, troubled face cleared a bit when he saw the pair walking up to him, and he almost knocked over his chair in the haste to get up.

“Mr Holmes. I got your message. Did you find anything?”

“Ah, Henry. How many cigarettes do you smoke daily?” Sherlock asked, slipping off his gloves and completely ignoring Henry's question.

“Um... it depends really. Why?” John shared Henry's confusion as both men stared at Sherlock.

“No reason. Tell me, did you change your brand lately?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

“Mr Holmes, is there something wrong with my cigarettes? Do you think they put the po-”

“And how about the filters? I've noticed you sometimes roll your own cigarettes, any changes in the brand of filters or tobacco?”

Sherlock pretended to ignore John's suspicious looks as he interrupted Henry. The fool nearly gave everything away. But Sherlock needed to know. If the substance that made Henry so susceptible to certain urges were truly in the cigarette smoke – the same smoke Sherlock had so greedily inhaled during Henry's visit – that could easily explain all of Sherlock's...symptoms.

“No, nothing”, Henry replied, frowning. “I told you, the only thing that was different was the sugar.”

“So you did.” Sherlock murmured. They bid Henry goodbye with promises of an update, and then went up to their room. John needed a change of clothes and Sherlock needed...well, Sherlock need a lot of things – a smoke, time to think, a cure for whatever seemed to have gotten into him lately. After dousing John with what was in the pipes of the decontamination showers, Sherlock had done his best to entice John. Had the love-potion or whatever it was in the spray, it should have started influencing John by now. But John seemed frustratingly unaffected. Sherlock, on the other hand, found that his own inner tension intensifying. Seeing John so rattled after the scene in the lab left Sherlock with an unexpected twinge of guilt and a feeling of protectiveness that was highly irrational, given that John was in no real danger and that Sherlock was the cause of his...discomfort. He needed to solve this case, and fast. Perhaps going back to the known routine of their life would settle down this vapid swarm under Sherlock's breastbone.

Unfortunately, none of the things Sherlock longed for were available as Sherlock found himself some minutes later sitting with a glass of scotch in front of a fireplace in the common room of the inn, with John in the armchair across. John had insisted on coming down, claiming he would not spend the entire night in their room, thank you very much, and neither would Sherlock if John had any say in it. As it turned out, he did, so now the two were seated in front of a crackling fire, sipping their drinks in silence, until John spoke, looking at the twirl of liquid in his glass.

“You thought it was in the cigarettes and in the spray, didn't you? The poison?”

Sherlock blinked at the fire.

“I...had a theory.”

“You were the one who set off the mechanisms in the shower room.” It wasn't a question, so Sherlock offered no answer.

“And it wasn't in the spray, was it?”

“No.”

“You were wrong.”

“My hypothesis was disputed.”

“Just say it, Sherlock. You. Were. Wrong.” John pushed. His tone was still dangerously amicable.

“Fine. I was wrong. Happy now? ”

“No, I am not happy!” There it was. Sherlock had an ego, but heavens knew John had a temper to match. “Jesus, Sherlock. You locked me in and tested a drug of potentially unknown side-effects on me without even telling me!”

“Had I told you, would you have agreed to go in?”

“That's beside the point entirely!”

“Then what is _the point_?” Sherlock asked derisively.

“The point, you git, is that one does not do things like that to his friends.”

Oh John. How could he still not know? How could he say such things when Sherlock's blood seemed aflame, burning him from within. Friends? Is that what John thought he was to Sherlock? The sudden frustrated rage at the unfairness of it all – of Sherlock having to deal with the raging unrest in his chest while John seemed so unaffected – erupted in Sherlock's mouth, so instead of saying something along the lines of ' _you are more than a friend'_ or indeed just a simple ' _sorry'_ , Sherlock came around hissing and spitting venom.

“I don't have _friends._ ”

To see hurt on John's face would have been a pleasure compared to the resigned disappointment that spoke of John's worst assumptions confirmed. As if, all along, he had believed Sherlock to be heartless and now getting the confirmation he dreaded.

“Yeah. Wonder why.”

And with that he was off, walking out of the inn and leaving Sherlock with a traitorous tongue and a heart that felt bee-stung and swollen.

 

* * *

The air on the moor was biting, the wind howling. John walked uphill until he reached the top and looked back to see the blinking lights of the village below. Energy suddenly drained from him like dirty water out of a sink and with it his anger. He'd been fighting this spiralling fall of his for so long, and rather unsuccessfully at that. Only as of late, John had allowed himself to try and find comfort in the fact he'd known for a good long while. He was, beyond hope of salvation, in love with his mad flatmate. He kept it well under wraps, in his opinion. For the first time in a long time, John felt alive, with Sherlock, at Baker Street, in their mad whirl of a life. He would not risk it for anything in the world. Not even the laments of his heart. And what Sherlock had done felt like...betrayal. An invasion. John thought they were partners. Not a scientist and his labrat. Only it wasn't a betrayal really. Not of Sherlock's character, John thought. Sherlock had never claimed to be moral or considerate. John supposed that somewhere along the way, he'd let his own wishes colour the reality of things. That did not mean he was not still pissed off as hell because of what Sherlock had done. But the anger took a backseat as disappointment flooded John. Just because his heart decided to love did not mean it was clever to. And was there a stupider thing to do than to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes? The case was only adding to the irony of the whole thing. Because, despite what Sherlock thought, John had done some digging on his own about the case.

Honestly, the little comfort John had came from the fact that Sherlock hadn't yet figured it all out. The man seemed oblivious of John's emotional turmoil. But then again, Sherlock was oblivious about a few other things concerning John. Those very things were John's last lines of defence of his heart. Or maybe against it.

 

* * *

There was no point in trying to sleep, Sherlock knew. Besides, he still had a case to solve and Major Barrymore did say 24 hours. He never said there was a closing time at Baskerville. And even if there were, Sherlock had no moral qualms about a little bit of breaking and entering. Taking the jeep back to the labs, Sherlock found himself examining the sugar from Henry's house in the dead of night. He didn't know what he expected to find, but whatever it was remained stubbornly hidden. Not that the echo of John's words and the floating vision of his disheartened face were any help at focusing at all.

There had to be _something._ In all his years, Sherlock never heard of such powerful magic being trapped in something so mundane as sugar – powerful magic needed powerful objects – but if there were a place where it could be achieved, it was Baskerville. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Sherlock barely registered the sound of steps drawing nearer until the door swung open.

“Oh. I didn't know there would be anyone else here at this time. I do apologise.”

“Dr Frankland” Sherlock greeted. “I didn't know you worked the night shift.”

“I don't usually, but I had some work that could not wait until morning. Time-sensitive matters, if you understand.”

“Quite.” Sherlock replied. Frankland's demeanour was nothing if not friendly. Maybe even a bit too friendly, if you asked Sherlock. But that might have been due to Sherlock's foul mood and the fact that Frankland was keeping him away from his samples.

“And what are you working on at this late hour?” The old doctor inquired. Sherlock had a creeping feeling that beneath the benevolent exterior there was something else entirely. No one working at Baskerville could be considered benign. So he decided to use the man while he had him at his disposal.

“The case that brought me here.”

“Oh, of course. Poor Henry. I've known his father, you see.”

“Yes, interesting. Tell me, Dr Frankland, what do you know of storage of complex multienergetic forms at particle levels?”

The fatherly smile wavered on Frankland's face. He must have been aware of Sherlock's (or rather, Mycroft's since that was Sherlock's assumed identity here) magical nature – the Holmes family was, after all very famous in the magical circles. But Sherlock's question about trapping complex magic at the level particles seemed to knock the good doctor off balance.

“Not much, really. Nearly that any and all attempts at it had failed.”

“Have they now?”

“As far as I am aware, yes. The higher magics are almost impossible to bind, as anyone knows. Their separate components can, in theory, be bound and used a catalysts, but even that is almost impossible in practice. I pity anyone who'd think of binding a whole Complex. There was that one time...” Frankland droned on, but Sherlock was no longer listening.

Oh. Oh, of course. How could he had been so stupid?

Grabbing the pack of sugar from the desk, Sherlock dashed through the lab, startling Frankland out of his lecture.

“Mr Holmes?”

“Good evening, Doctor. I do hope you manage to finish your work!”

 

* * *

He found John in their room. John's skin and hair smelt of fresh air and the moor. Undoubtedly, he'd taken a walk to calm down and clear his head. The memory of their fight almost made Sherlock waver. But he could not stop now. Not when he was so close to _knowing_. John was not in danger. Sherlock just needed to _know_. And then everything would be solved.

John had apparently decided to ignore Sherlock. He was lying in bed, reading one of his cheap crime novels. Sherlock suppressed the urge to spoil it by deducing the ending aloud. Instead, he moved to John's side and offered a cup of tea he'd made in the downstairs kitchenette. He said nothing as John raised his eyebrows.

“What's this then?”

“Tea.”

“Yes, I can see that. Why did you make tea?”

Why? Sherlock couldn't say, for a few reasons and then some. Some of them a bit not good and some potentially catastrophic.

“I mean what I said, John”, he said instead, unable to face John's curious stare. “I don't have friends...I only have one.”

John tilted his head, sending Sherlock an odd look. Sherlock met it for a moment and then could not look away. All he could do was flick his eyes helplessly to the cup in John's hand and back to John's face. He was about to tell John not to drink the tea, to toss it away when something in John's eyes changed. He lifted the cup to his lips, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. There was something very deliberate in that action and for a moment Sherlock had the insane feeling that John _knew._ John sipped calmly at his tea.

“I don't take sugar.”

Sherlock knew that. John, however, didn't seem to mind. He just kept looking at Sherlock until Sherlock wanted to scream. Draining the last drop, John set the cup back on the saucer.

And then the clock stopped ticking.

 

 


	5. ...now come back to create us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the last chapter :) Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story, I am terribly sorry for the irregular updates, I hate doing that, life's just been very demanding. Enjoy!

* * *

John rose from the bed, leaving the empty tea cup on the nightstand. Steadily he walked over to Sherlock until he was in Sherlock's space, until he could breathe the same air Sherlock did. Only – Sherlock didn't breathe. His breath seemed to stop along with the now-unticking clock. Oddly enough, there was no painful pressure in his chest, no sensation of drowning. No breath, no pain, nothing but the silence, the unmoving stars beyond the window, and John right up close, regarding Sherlock like an offering, like a possibility. John's eyes flicked from Sherlock's own to Sherlock's lips, his head tilting a bit as his tongue darted out to wet his lips in a quick motion. Sherlock could feel John's tea-sweetened, warm breath drifting over his face. He could count the pale eyelashes on John's lower eyelids. He could map the tones of John's skin. What Sherlock could not do was move. Or hear his own heart beat. He was frozen in place.

John, on the other hand, seemed perfectly unaffected by whatever had come over Sherlock. Although, not entirely unaffected. The body was a traitor, always and with unerring precision. As a stark contrast to Sherlock's lack of breath, John's came out in aggravated puffs. The pulse on his neck beat a rapid tattoo, as if trying to make up for the utter stillness of Sherlock's. So close, so restless. But even so, John stood just far enough not to touch Sherlock. Heat blazed off him, singing wavelengths calling out to Sherlock to twine them into something new, something slightly wicked, something unbreakable. It was the loveliest torture. Sherlock was certain that if he'd not been trapped in this immobility, he would be flushed with heat, buzzing down to his very bones.

John's eyes were still on Sherlock's lips, his face so close to Sherlock's that all that was needed was for either one of them to lean in just a bit. But Sherlock couldn't and John...John abruptly looked up at Sherlock and in that moment Sherlock was certain John would kiss him. There wasn't a shadow of doubt in his mind about it, and just like that Sherlock knew that he didn't want it to happen. Not like this. Not when all this was false, induced. Not when he was all bees and screaming threads of magic when it came to John and John just...wasn't. God, Sherlock wanted – he'd spent _ages_ wanting – but not this. How stupid of him, to ever have thought that this could have been enough. The heat of John's body still called to him, called to Sherlock to twist it into something new, but Sherlock knew (he knew now) that he could twist it till the end of time itself but he would never manage to make anything but chains if he even as much as reached out to it now. And chains would never do.

The intent in John's eyes was the same one Sherlock had seen when John had drunk the tea. It was exhilarating. It was frightening. It was beyond Sherlock's control. John leaned forward slowly, and Sherlock wanted to move, wanted to shove back, refuse and explain. He could not. John's face was so close now that all Sherlock could see were blue eyes.

“You bloody git.”

Feeling flooding back into his body, Sherlock drew a deep breath, gulping at air as John moved away from him, a smug smirk barely contained. The moment John had whispered the words in front of Sherlock, the Detective found he could move again. His heart thumped loudly in his head, his chest feeling tight and too slow as he wheezed. But the buzzing of his body was nothing compared to the whirl of his mind, trying to make sense of what just happened. And John wasn't precisely helping.

“I should clobber you with a shoe, I swear.” The doctor was standing in front of the bed, hands propped on his hips.

“Wha-” Sherlock tried but John was on a roll.

“You utter cock. I can't believe you actually did it. Actually, yes, I can. I'm pretty sure that should worry me.”

“Did what?”

The glare John sent him warned Sherlock this was not the time to play dumb. Not that it suited him, anyway. But this was impossible. John couldn't have known what he was drinking. John was ordinary, non-magical. Sherlock was sure of this. Then again, he had already been proven wrong once that very evening...

“I am not an idiot, Sherlock.”

“I never said you were.”

“Sherlock.”

“I haven't said it _recently_.”

A snort was all the reply Sherlock got. A short (and awkward on Sherlock's end) silence settled over the two men. Sherlock was unsure if breaking it would bring relief or more chaos, so he settled for using it to try and parse out what in heaven's name was going on.

“This is the second time you did that.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock blinked.

“This is the second time you tried to poison me. You should have just asked.”

“It would have ruined the experiment.”

“I am pretty sure poison doesn't care much if I know about it. It's still poisonous.”

Sherlock's eyes flitted guiltily to the floor.

“Or could it be because what you were really testing was a love potion? I can see how in that case your results could have been compromised.”

Sherlock wasn't often rendered speechless. Then again, it wasn't often that one's flatmate suddenly spoke of things they simply could not know about. John's anger was slowly replaced by something akin to exasperated amusement. Sherlock forbid himself from calling it fondness.

“For a genius, you're really thick sometimes.” John's voice was impossibly soft.

“You stopped time.” Best to start with the obvious, Sherlock supposed.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“But that's...impossible.”

“Is it now? Because I'm pretty sure I've being doing it for a good long while now.” John's voice was plain. Nothing else about John was anything even close to plain.

“You are Magical.”

“You're on fire tonight with the deductions.”

But Sherlock was still too stunned to react the John's gentle mocking.

“You never said anything. I didn't know. How could I not know?” The last question seemed more directed to Sherlock than John, as the Detective started to pace.

“You don't know everything about me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stilled. “Obviously.”

Sensing that maybe his remark hit a cord, John went on before Sherlock could slink into a sulk.

“I'm a Time Mage.”

“Time Mages are a myth.” The words were a knee-jerk reaction conditioned through years of studies and tales. By the irritated stiffening of John's shoulders, Sherlock could tell this was somewhat of a sore spot. With a deep breath, John turned to Sherlock.

“Are they now?”

“Yes. It's not a matter of opinion, John. There is no such thing as a Time Mage. Time cannot be manipulated. Time is immaterial, abstract. You can't perform magic on it. No one can.”

“Sherlock, what is at the root of all magic?” John interrupted.

“Energy.” Sherlock replied automatically. Easy question, easy answer.

“What is the life force of every living thing?”

“Energy in various forms and its conversion.” Where was John going with this?

“Precisely. Maybe your right. Time Mages are a myth, an impossible myth, if you think of time the way you do. What are the units of time, Sherlock?”

“A second, a minute, an hour, a day, month, year, decade...do you really need me to innumerate them all, John?”

“No, but it helps make a point.”

“What point?”

“What is a day, Sherlock?”

Eye-roll barely kept at bay, Sherlock answered the way a bored pupil might.

“A single rotation of the Earth around it's axis.”

“And a year?”

“A single rotation of the Earth around the Sun, along its orbit.”

“Would you be so kind to remind me what is rotation?”

“...movement.”

“Which is...”

“Kinetic energy.” Oh, clever John. Sherlock was not amused, but he was impressed. He would not give up so easily, though. “Are you really saying you can still the movement of the planet?”

John snorted. “Of course not, don't be ridiculous.”

Sherlock frowned. “The what was the point of this?”

“I just like proving you wrong. Oh, don't be like that!” John said, seeing the looming scowl settle over Sherlock's face. “Look, as you said, all living creatures posses energy. The flow of that energy is the life force. It's what drives us. It's what makes us grow. What ages us. Time in humans isn't marked in rotations, Sherlock. It's marked in ageing. You regular magic folk can control any form of energy, but you can't control the totality of them. A few, yes, but not a whole system. Time Mages can do just that. I can't bend light or sound, but I can slow down or speed up the energy conversion in living things. I can stop it, for short intervals. No breathing, no heartbeat, no energy what so ever flowing. No decay, no ageing. I can freeze time for someone. Or make it flow faster, age them while the rest of the world continues at regular pace.”

“Corporal Lyons. You made it go faster for him.”

“Yes. Thought it would speed things up if he thought he'd already spent time checking in with his superiors.”

Sherlock looked at John – ordinary, lovely John – sitting on the ugly coverlet on the bed. Quiet, angry John, brave tin soldier. How did Sherlock miss it? Maybe he was too busy with the bees and all, but he was too observant even under the most dire of circumstances.

“Why?”

John blinked in confusion. “Why what?”

“Why haven't you said anything?”

“Would you have believed me if I had?”

“Eventually.”

John rubbed a hand across his face. When he spoke, his voice was heavy, tired. His eyes were shaded. Sad.

“Time Mages are not like regular Magics, Sherlock. For centuries we were hunted because people thought we were Necromancers, or because they feared we would speed up their time and leave them old and frail on the slightest of whims. People don't like people who can mess with the essence of their life. Funny, that.”

“I am not 'people'.” Sherlock sounded sincerely affronted by the mere suggestion.

“I know you're not”, John smiled weakly. “But this is something I've kept to myself for a long time. I rarely use my magic. Sometimes I almost manage to forget it's even there.”

“I don't understand, why would you want to forget it?”

John sighed. “Look, to the magical folk we're not real Magics, since we can't really do any of the stuff you do, the way you do it. The non-magicals, if the know of us, fear us as one of you. We're neither here nor there.”

Sherlock was still unsure if he understood. Magic was such an integral part of him that he could not comprehend wanting to forget it. He was magical through and through. Perhaps he would ever truly understand. But he could relate on one point. Sherlock knew what it was like to be a outsider. John apparently took his silence as a sign of the topic being concluded. Before Sherlock could offer any consolation, John spoke.

“It didn't work, in case you were wondering.”

“What didn't?” Sherlock frowned with confusion.

“The love potion.”

Sherlock looked at John closely. He appeared to be telling the truth, as far as Sherlock could tell. But that failed to explain the elevated pulse and the fast breathing from earlier.

“How do you know it didn't work?”

Silence. John stared at his fingernails, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

“John?”

After a few more moments, hard blue eyes looked up to Sherlock's inquiring ones. John never cowered.

“Because I didn't feel any different.”

Different? Different from what...John honestly wasn't making much sense and Sherlock was really done with it and...oh. Bees and colours and magnets under his skin. A loud heart. John's heart, John's breath, quick, so very quick. He saw but did not observe.

“Oh.”

John's eyes were soft. Fond.

“Yes. Oh.”

“But you...you didn't kiss me.”

“You didn't want me to.” Not a question. And not untrue.

“Did you want to?” Sherlock asked. The question was borderline rhetorical. John stood up, tilting his head.

“Does it matter?” John walked closer, until he was in front of Sherlock again.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered on a single breath.

“Why?”

Why? Because Sherlock was a hive, a storm cloud, a feverish bloodstream. Because John overrode the magnetism of the Earth. Because of his colours and his heat and his voice. Why? Because Sherlock had never seen such magic before. Why? Because Sherlock could not answer properly if he spoke for the next century or so. Words were very much inadequate. And John was so very, very close. His eyes met Sherlock, a slight nod giving the permission Sherlock didn't know how to ask for. It was enough. It was everything.

This time Sherlock could move. So he did.

He crashed his lips to John's, and it was like gasping for air. John's lips were slightly chapped, his breath heavy with tea-taste and the heat of his mouth as he nipped at Sherlock's bottom lip. John's hands found their way into Sherlock hair and onto the nape of his neck, sliding until he was holding Sherlock's face in his palms. Ragged breathing echoed through the room as Sherlock opened his mouth and breathed John's air, John's lips slanting over his own, eliminating space. Teeth and tongues found soft lips and warm touch in a ritual with a long-forgotten purpose, a summoning from the dawn of ages. A whimper escaped Sherlock's throat (not that he would ever admit it), and he could feel John's smile against his lips.

Lowering one of his hands, John took Sherlock's right wrist and tugged, walking them backwards towards the bed, undoing the buttons of Sherlock shirt as they went. By the time they reached the bed and the back of John's knees bumped against the edge, Sherlock's shirt was hanging open. John pushed it off Sherlock shoulders, kissing a trail down Sherlock's neck to his collarbone.

“John...” The sound of John's name in his own voice reverberated through Sherlock, roiling up the bees. Sherlock's skin was alight, all pins and needles left in the wake of John's touch. John sat down on the bed and Sherlock clambered up into his lap, both legs on either side of John's as John bit at the thin skin of Sherlock's shoulder, making a red mark bloom. Sherlock moaned and scrambled at John's shirt to pull it off. All his magic ran rouge, all his energy spinning wildly in knots and bursts of sound and heat, clumsy motion and hungry light bouncing off John, who'd abandoned Sherlock's collarbone in favour of ridding himself of his shirt. One of the sleeves caught at the elbow as John struggled to pull the shirt over his head. Once he finally managed to get it off, his hair stuck out at odd angles, a perfect disarray. It was almost unbearably endearing, this clumsy abandon. It was _intimate._ John, the always-buttoned-up, hospital-corners-on-bedsheets, walking-like-a-soldier John, like this, all mussed and unravelled, imperfect and unbreakable. Scarred. Exposed. Trusting. A fearsome feeling cracked through Sherlock's chest, under his breastbone, only to spread like dark ink, seeping into every crevice – between apprehension and impatience, more than lust, more than fear of trust-almost-lost. The best kind of surrender. The most dangerous kind of conviction.

Sherlock's hands flew from John's shoulders to John's face, lifting it up so he could kiss him again. Strong, dry palms caressed his back as John kissed him back with all the focus and determination of a crack shot. Sherlock inched closer, his hips rolling slightly against John's.

“Christ...” John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's, out of breath.

“Not quite.” Sherlock teased, but it came out weak and breathy as John's thumbs traced the line of his trousers, running along the jutting ridges of Sherlock's hipbones. Fluttery breaths trembled between them, and Sherlock could not for the life of him discern if the constant frenzy was coming from this place of old magic or from John. He could have sworn John was making his blood run faster and hotter with more than was natural, using his magic to drive Sherlock insane.

The mattress squeaked as John rolled them over, hovering over Sherlock, pinning his arms above his head with one of his, the other tracing patterns, drawing tattoos – runes and incantations, protection spells, summons and promises – everywhere.Each sweep of hands, it felt like falling and flying, all at the same time. Sherlock would know. But flying is simple. Flying is just air pressure and some will. This was a paradox of pressure and relief, of pushing and pulling, of imploding and bursting into fragments. John pushed a leg between Sherlock’s, entwining them further, and Sherlock moaned again, felt the sound waves twine with those of John's ragged breathing. And then the pressure, endless, delicious, agonising. Hands, legs, lips, breaths, heat, the magnetic pull, and something far more dangerous than all of it, all of it gripped at Sherlock as John hovered over him, bracing his weight on his forearms around Sherlock's head. Their bodies slotted together, their hips rocking in unison as they gasped into each other's mouths.

Sherlock knew – he _knew_ – it was impossible for a single person to be so much, to hold the powerhouse of energy that is the primordial magic of yearning. People have died from it. Broken hearts were not fairytales – love was everything in you that could still twist you into the darkest of shapes, love was what crawled out of your belly at night to nip at your mouth from within, and left chapped lips in its wake, the bitter taste on your coated, stale tongue. Love was the magic people had been stupid enough to trap, stupid enough to let in, thinking it was at their service.

So there was no way of explaining John. There was no explaining what spells he used to bind Sherlock’s skin so that it didn’t disintegrate under the force of the magic within him. John was impossible, the point of convergence of all that Sherlock was ever taught against. John was like Time, making Sherlock want in tenses past, present, and future, making him suspended in the space between moments, scattering him over the points of time.

Sherlock wanted to touch John, wants to touch him now, will always want it, forever. He wants to show John how the ground feels when the core of the planet shakes, wanted to make John understand that the bees in him have felt like gravity looking for its place in the vacuum, will always want to bend the light reflected off John’s skin and hair and teeth and wet lips so that it will touch all corners of everywhere. John was-is-will be a brand of magic of his own kind.

“Off... get them off...” Sherlock gasped as he freed one hand and grappled at John's trousers. They struggled to undo the zips and kick the offending clothes off, stealing kisses in the process.

Once they were finally naked, the burning rush seemed to come to a stand still, almost as if John had frozen them in the moment. But Sherlock knew he did not. This was not a manipulation of time. Not of the manageable kind, anyway. In that moment, staring wide-eyed at John with John above him, looking right back, unflinching, Sherlock was thousand threads of inexplicable forces twining together; a breath of wind, the sound of a pebble hitting water, the heat of a dying star. It was disconcerting and utterly gripping. Like a mosaic, finally coming together, all the scattered pieces slotting together. This was, Sherlock realised in that single moment before everything became a blurry, what being truly alive felt like. Impossibly bright and unbearably complete. He wasn't the magician in this – he was part of the spell.

It could have lasted a century, this realisation of his, but it probably lasted only as long as it took for John to blink, breath, exist for a moment longer, and then their bodies came crashing together. John's fingers twined with Sherlock, once again above their heads as they slid against each other. Sherlock lifted his head and kissed the star-burst of John's scar.

“Oh God, Sherlock.”

The key of magic was harmony. Sherlock was sure there was no magic that could outdo any of this. Of them. They weren't kissing anymore, merely breathing into each other. It was too much. It was entirely not enough. Sherlock didn't have words to say it. But John heard him anyway. He always did.

Reaching one hand between their pressed bodies, John closed the gap between their mouths as he took them both in hand. It didn't take more than a few slides of John's hand before Sherlock felt the his muscles spasm, his body pushing infinitely closer to John's, his lungs entirely too small to let him breathe, his voice almost foreign, rough and raw as his body gave under John's hands, John's mouth, and whatever damn spell he'd spun with them. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he came, mouth tearing away from John's as he threw back his head against the pillow.

The rhythmic slide of their bodies faltered and broke, but Sherlock reached out to replace John's hand with his own, watching the last vestiges of control slip from John's body. John's pants were ragged and erratic as he followed Sherlock and came, and Sherlock was sure then that he'd never really understood magic at all until that very moment.

* * *

“All my life I’ve had it wrong.”

In the darkness of their room, Sherlock lay nestled against John, his head on John's shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“It is not true that love potions don’t exist. It’s simply that they do not induce love. They can’t. That much was always true.”

“So what was it that Henry was given then? How did it work?”

John was trailing the pads of his fingers along Sherlock's back. Their legs were twined like strands of a binding spell.

“Love potions are really just catalysts. They only work if there is already a substrate. The First Law of Magic is really the law of conservation of energy. It states that energy can’t be neither created nor destroyed. You can’t _create_ magic. You can simply re-direct, re-shape the energy around you.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much. I _am_ a sorcerer, too, remember?”

“Yes, yes. Anyway, that is the reason why love potions as such do not work. They need an already-existent energy as a ground for their effects.”

A short silence followed, the comfortable, content kind, before John spoke again.

“But here’s the thing, though...the potion you slipped me didn’t work. Why is that, you think?”

“I have a theory. No way of confirming it, of course, but it’s better than anything _Mycroft’s_ men managed to come up with.”

“Out with it, then.”

“You said you knew it didn't work because you didn't feel any different. Since the prerequisite of any successful spell is the accumulation of an adequate amount of the wanted energy, love potions would have to store enough energy to _increase_ the energy being invested in active attraction or love by the person being dosed with them. If the amount of such energy was higher in the person than in the potion, the potion would have no effect. It would be like throwing a match into a pyre and expecting it to make a significant difference.”

Sherlock could more feel than see John's contemplative frown as he spoke, lips brushing against Sherlock's forehead.

“So you're saying, love potions don't work on people who already love?”

“Basically. It sounded much better my way.”

“Of course it did.” John smiled. “I guess it makes sense.”

“Of course it makes sense, John. It's _my_ theory. ”

John just chuckled, a warm, private sound emerging somewhere form the centre of his chest.

"Who did it?"

"Hm? Did what?"

"Slip the potion to Henry."

"Oh. Bob Frankland. Apparently Henry is rather wealthy, consequence of a generous inheritance. The man he got involved with in Glasgow is Frankland's nephew."

"That's harsh."

"Perhaps. But from what I could deduce, Frankland acted alone. I think there might be a possibility the nephew actually cared for our poor Mr Knight."

"Let's hope so."

The night was quiet around them, the bees under Sherlock's skin buzzing contentedly, sleepy and sated. And if the world sang in tones so low and so long-forgotten that not many remembered how to listen for them, than it must have sang a lullaby, about deep rocks and subtle tremors, about earthquakes and wild winds, about the Magics, the First Spells, the Elements. And the one magic that came before them all.

“John?” Sherlock murmured, unsure if the other was still awake. (And maybe the uncertainty made it easier to speak.)

“Hm?”

“The love potion wouldn't have worked on me either.”

Sherlock could feel John's smile the way he could feel light or sound or the pull of the old rocks.

“I'm glad, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

The First Law of Magic quotes the Law of Conservation of Energy when it says that energy cannot be created or destroyed. No energy can be made, and none can be lost, so when Sherlock jumps off the roof of St Bart’s a few months later, transforming potential into kinetic energy, his momentum isn’t lost but transformed once he reaches the ground. John watches him fall and wills the air to hold him up, but Sherlock has always been the genius, so he manipulates air into submission, forces his way into a free fall. The shock of his fall shakes the ground and then shakes John’s heart, breaks it into shards and leaves all that impact energy trapped inside a living body of a broken man. The energy changes shape again, and this time it’s into pain, which feels like heat and the gravity of a black hole, and sounds like deafening silence.

John carries the energy with him for the next two years, always there, trapped with nowhere to go, and yet he feels so tired. He lets the pain float nebulously in his chest because he cannot lose it. Until one day he can. Until one day Sherlock comes back, because apparently the air did hold him up after all and the light tricked John’s eyes in the last moment, and John can finally lose his pain, transfer it on. The pain become kinetic energy once again, with a fist to Sherlock’s jaw, because the air and the light might have pulled tricks and those John forgives, but the pain had tricked the heart into believing it, and that John can never un-feel. The anger becomes momentum again with a kiss to the lips, and then, later on, it becomes every form of magic – body heat and movement, sounds that their mouths fail to contain, and light, and pressure, and the gravity at the very centre of them, pulling them together.

And Sherlock learns that there is a great difference between saying ‘ _You are mine’_ and ‘ _I am yours’_ , because one is possession incompatible with the true nature of magic, while the other is a willing concession of a part of one’s soul.

In the end, the energy becomes what it has always been: the oldest force, the most volatile magic. And the reason why love potions do not work.

 


End file.
